


why don't you say so?

by belgard



Series: a man of distinction [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Confusion, Denial of Feelings, Dry Humping, Finger Sucking, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, M/M, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, roger is a chaotic bi with issues, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belgard/pseuds/belgard
Summary: infatuation or attraction, roger finds himself lost between the two. the afterparty of the release ofa night at the operais an attempt at subtle extravaganza; his mind is full of john, he swallows his feelings down with alcohol, and the ambiguity of it all scares him, but when they touch, it makes him forget.
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: a man of distinction [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1281974
Comments: 14
Kudos: 82





	why don't you say so?

**Author's Note:**

> heEeeeeY. whoop whoop whoop. 
> 
> title taken from the doja cat track, 'say so.'

“The usual, Rog?”

What is the usual, one might ask, and Roger would answer: ‘Nowadays, the usual would be vodka tonic, but on other nights, the usual could just be a time well spent on my bed.’ He doesn’t know what this feeling _is,_ the rumbling dizziness that’s overtaking his mind and his chest, hammering him down like a piece of cloth. Just withering away.

He feels like a maniac, almost, with nothing much to lose, yet still feeling like he’s spilling his guts out for the ravens to peck on. Some kind of wake up call that’d be, he thinks to himself, before nodding up to Chris the bartender when his glass is places on the ebony bar table, stark gold next to his wrist. There's a certain emptiness in his guts, and he tries to fill it, failing miserably. The tips of his finger itch for the feeling of something he's unsure of. He's not even sure that he's supposed to be thinking about it. 

They’ve released a new album. _A_ _N_ _ight at the Opera,_ as Fred smartly called it. Another production of recording and printing went over smoothly, if he could say so himself, and the memory of the whole process have stuck itself onto his mind perhaps for another eternity, complete with Brian’s sighs of utter fucking contempt, Fred’s nagging and twinkling laugh, and of course, John’s quiet giggles that seemed to echo inside the room they were in. He’s not the type talk much, but when he does. . .

He downs his drink in one go.

Even thinking of the _name_ makes him feel itchy all over, and not the good kind.

It’s as if John’s entire being is lingering onto his skin, warm and wild and beautiful, full of mirth and snark that hurts. Roger doesn’t know what to feel. He’s not supposed to think of the way John’s hands feel on him, how velvet-like John’s lips are when they open for him, tongue lolled out, like a puppy. It’s not something he’s supposed to even _know_ the feeling of. Everything in him seems to be unable to resist it, no matter how thick the walls he's built, they crumble down in seconds. 

The thing is, Roger is supposed to be used to this. Fucking. And then leaving. And then fucking again. Leaving again—it all comes in a cycle that always leads to depravity that leaves his skin hot and fingers desperate. He’s had plenty of people on his bed, looking up at him with sparkling eyes, even if none of them has ever had eyes that sparkled like John’s do. They’re nameless, even when they’re celebrities Roger forgets the feeling of their bodies when his hands had once mapped them in the dimly-lit spaces of his bedroom, hotel room, supply rooms. Filthy and hot, he remembers that. The satisfaction he feels when he hears them groan out his name, he remembers that.

But he doesn’t care. It’s just a shag. Meaningless, quick and easy.

John, on the other hand, is different. John is his _friend_ , his bandmate. He can’t just forget about him, can’t leave him careless and apathetic. He can’t do anything to get John out of his head when he sees him everyday, sitting at that one corner of the studio with his head hung low, pretty locks of brown hair falling over his rose-cheeked face, fingers dancing across the fretboard of his scratched up bass, long legs in tight flares crossed over one another, beige suede platform boots on display.

He’s always been so fucking beautiful, and Roger doesn’t understand it.

John, who would look up at them with wide ash-green eyes peeking through the curtains of his lashes, lips pulled into a questioning smile at the call of his name. John, who would shrug casually with his gap tooth on display when someone compliments his talent at events. John, who would bump his shoulder against his and say, ‘I’m happy for the band.’

John, who would come to him at night and sit on his lap like he owns it, fabric of his trousers stretched to no abandon, eyes dark and glazed over as he takes what he wants, arching his back like a siren. The two of them have only done small things just to tease each other in ridiculous times, but Roger knows that their mutual hunger for touch needs to be sated; hands brushing against each other before shows, stolen glances across the room, shy kisses on cheeks behind the shadows backstage. It all seems naughty, like doing things they shouldn't, and there is a truth to that. Anything at all is able to make Roger feel warm all over, face heating up like a prepubescent boy. John is always so lovely, so bashful with his sweet, ruddy cheeks and his shy smiles and Roger finds himself stuck in that moment, not being able to get image of John out of his thoughts. 

Roger is losing his goddamn mind.

He looks up at the bartender, lifts up a finger, before he lays his head on the table, staring at the stage before his eyes where an up and coming band is performing to a dingy club like their lives depends on it.

He might fuck the vocalist, the one with the red hair and red lipstick, shaking her hips to the music with fire in her eyes.

Or he might fuck the bass player—he looks good enough to eat.

He ended up fucking himself over, head pounding from the reckless intake of alcohol to clear his mind away, and in turn make a whole other mess of it. He staggered for a cab and arrived at the building something-something minutes after he threw a few crumpled bills at the driver. The night might still be young, but he isn’t quite, and he’s tired.

Roger bangs on the door in front of him. 213. It’s almost muscle memory at this point.

“A minute!” comes a faint voice from the inside, followed by the gentle patter of running feet, and then the door is open, revealing Brian in his pyjamas, curly hair a bit tousled and unlike his day-to-day prim styling. There are subtle bags under his eyes, those that he always seem to cover with makeup before their shows. “What the fuck are you doing here? Rog, it’s one in the morning!”

Roger just stumbles inside, pushing the man aside until he finds the small living room in Brian’s tidy-as-fuck flat. It always feels like a scene out of an infomercial whenever he goes to Brian’s flat, even in the worst of their days his house is still as orderly as ever—everything is where they’re supposed to be and not a single thread of thing out of place, except for the living room, but even that was artfully disheveled. Homely would be a better word, with stray pillows all over couches and thin blankets covering half of them. Sweets fill the coffee table in jars, and Roger, still a child at heart somehow, always come down to snatching them right away out of their glass confinements.

He hears Brian sigh when he flops onto the maroon couch near the television. “Did you drink?”

Roger grunts a reply.

“Why would you—“ Brian throws himself onto another couch, the one that’s across the television. “You’re lucky I’m still awake.”

“I know you’re still awake, thought you might’ve been watchin’ those soap operas.”

“They are _not_ soap operas, Rog. They’re space operas!”

At Brian’s frustration, his mind offers him something else. It’s sudden, but he supposes the brief distraction might clear both of their heads.

“Bri, ‘ve got to tell ya something, mate.”

It’s too sudden.

Brian lifts his legs and brings it up to his chest, staring at him with questioning eyes, but also as if he’s ready for whatever it is Roger is going to say.

He has always looked like he’s got a shit ton of questions to ask, or looked like he knows the answer to every question in the world, and it always leaves Roger a little conflicted. Brian is intimidating in a way, in his judgement, and Roger, consumed by the throes of shots, simply feels like spilling his guts out to his best friend because _why the fuck not._

“This better be good or I’m throwing your arse out the bloody window.”

Roger sighs, closing his eyes and ignoring his faintly-thumping heart. “Me and Deaky are shagging.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

The couch is suddenly too rough against his skin and the television too loud. Crickets outside singing bloody gospels at his grand revelation. But Roger doesn’t care when the clock ticks because Brian breaks the silence in that unforgettable voice of his, always sounding so damn _level-headed_ : “I know.”

Roger sits up abruptly, before a sharp pain engulfs his head and his hand immediately goes to palm his skull. “You knew?!”

Brian just sighs and leans forwards to take his cup of tea, blowing on it nimbly. “Well, yeah,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, as if they’re just talking about the weather. He shakes some of his hair away from his eyes. “It’s not like you two are particularly subtle with it.”

Roger gulps. Fuck. This is even worse, he thinks to himself.

Everything is in disarray.

“Does—does Fred know?”

Brian shakes his head. “Don’t think so,” he replies. “I didn’t tell him either. You know how he is with John, don’t want him splitting your head in two, Rog.”

Roger lets out a sigh, before flopping back onto the sofa.

Right, he thinks.

John and Freddie.

It is a common knowledge between the three of them that Freddie is awfully protective of their youngest member, almost like a mother to her only child, but Roger understands it. Freddie is simply a caring person, and seeing how timid John is his maternal instincts must have been clicking and pulsating. Roger knows how it feels because they are both living together—it feels like his own mum was living right there with him. John makes them all feel protective somehow, even though Roger knows he doesn’t need protecting at all. He’s a big boy now; he’s wiser, smarter, not that all naïve. John has always been smart, anyways.

Imagine the shock Fred would have if he knew that the two of them have been fucking.

He’d have Roger’s dick on a plate. 

Roger runs a hand through his face.

“I’ve got to be honest with you though, Rog,” Brian says, voice lilting with something at the end. The way he’s lounging on the sofa shows indifference but even in his drunken mind Roger can still hear the frustrated tone at the end of Brian’s words. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?”

Roger sputters. “Why—why are you acting like I was the one who brought him into this? Like I know I’m an arsehole but not to _that_ extent.”

“Okay, so you two started it together.” Brian runs a hand through his hair. “That still doesn’t make it right.”

“No shit.”

He should’ve known better, he _knows_ that. This kind of thing is risky, one wrong move and everything would be ruined.

“If things between you two get messy, me and Fred don’t want to get involved, alright? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re in it now. The whole band thing. We’re really getting somewhere here. And I don’t want it to get all fucked up because you two decide to act like teenagers and fight.”

Roger sighs, thoughts running. “No, we won’t,” he says, voice getting smaller even to his own ears. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance that he knows is nonexistent. “Besides, it’s just fucking.”

“Are you really sure, Rog?” Brian asks, and Roger hates the faint concern in his voice. It always reminds him that he’s doing something that he isn’t supposed to, but the thing is, he’s not the only one involved in it. But he can’t blame anyone, doesn’t _want_ to blame anyone because whatever it is that he has with John, he wants it, and he’s got his mind dead fixed on it. “If you’ve got feelings for him, you’ve got to tell me, alright? We’ll figure things out. Get Freddie too if you need it.”

“No, I don’t have _feelings_ for Deaky,” he replies, before he shrugs and lets go. “Well, I don’t know.”

“Is he just a shag to you, Rog?”

“Who is?”

“Deaky.”

“Fuck no.”

Brian takes a sip of his tea. “Then that’s all that matters for now.”

* * *

“Um. Hi.”

Roger turns his head, finding John with his bass case on one hand and a white cup on the other. He’s standing there behind the faint cloud of the smoke that had emerged from the tip of Roger’s cheap cigarette, framing him in a cursive letter haze. 

He smiles, leaning back against the brick walls. “Hi, Deaks. The others are inside.” He gestures towards his cigarette, the tip of it flaring red as a jarring response. “Smoke break.”

“Yeah, I know,” John replies, smiling as he ducks his head. “Just wanted to ask you something.”

Roger shrugs, trying his best to tamper the heat that’s threatening to engulf his cheeks - his entire _body_ \- at the sight of John in the beautiful broad daylight, hair a chestnut flame that surrounds his gentle face and equally gentle eyes. He looks like a summer dream, brown hair and freckled ruddy cheeks, always so sweet like soft vanilla ice cream melting down the wrist in your grip. “Sure, go ‘head.”

“After this. . . um, are we gonna write another album, Rog? I’m just, kind of overwhelmed, ‘s all. But still.”

Roger takes another drag, and he knows that it’s about to end, but he doesn’t dare to let it fall to the ground and stomp it just yet. He’s got nothing to do with his hands if he does and he doesn’t know if he could ever conceal the fact that John charms him even when he’s doing the most effortless of things.

“I’m the worst person to ask about things like this, Deaks,” he replies instead. John walks over to lean against the wall next to him, the bass casing propped up near his legs. Roger expects himself to flinch at the proximity, but in return he finds himself feeling oddly comfortable. John’s _presence_ is comforting. “But I think we are. We’re on to something here. Would be a waste to let it all away, yeah?” Noticing the subtle nod John gives, he asks: “Why, you’ve got something in mind?”

“I don’t know,” John bites the corner of his lip. Roger ignores the little flip in his stomach. “Maybe.”

“I hope to fucking heavens it’s another song,” Roger says, letting himself smile in the widest way his lips would let him. “You’re gonna score us another hit, Deaky.”

He hears John huff and chuckle. “Ah, don’t say things like that, Rog. . . It’s just luck, ‘s all.”

“Luck, my arse,” he replies, slightly cringing when he hears the way his voice goes up in octaves. “You think someone with _luck_ could write a number one hit? That shit’s talent.”

“Weren’t you just bitching about the ‘happy at home’ bit, Rog?” John says, but there’s a teasing edge to his voice, and the way he’s biting down a smile proves that.

Roger rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on—“

“I know, I know.” John nods. “Still, thank you.”

“No need to thank me. About time you know about your own capabilities, Deaky. I was kind of waiting for that. Your _moment.”_ He makes jazz hands for theatrics, and John giggles. “We all were. And now you’re here. And we’re all doing kind of well because of that.”

John just laughs, shaking his head. “Now I’m here.”

Roger gasps at that. “Ooh, cheeky.”

The brunet just bumps his shoulder against his, a mischievous expression plastered on his face, before turning on his heel and walk towards the door that leads to the studio, leaving Roger alone once more with his own mind, a fickle thought, and a dimming cigarette.

* * *

A ring.

Roger scratches his eyes in the dead of night, head spinning as if he’s in a lousy fever dream. He picks up the phone, squishing it between his cheek and his shoulder as he closes his eyes, trying to chase the sleep that he lost.

_“Rog? Rog, it’s Fred.”_

At his urgent tone, he opens his eyes wide, sitting up straighter on his bed, resting his back against the headboard. When he runs a hand through his own hair, he grumbles at the feeling of a clump of hair balling up in a tangled mess at the back. He’s not even going to deal with that at this point, he thinks to himself. “Fred? What’s the matter?”

_“The event’s in three days, don’t forget.”_

“Wait, what event?”

A beat, and Roger can hear the way Fred’s rolling his eyes right now.

_“Launch party. At the hotel.”_

“Oh. That.” Roger almost forgot about that—fuck.

_“Mm. That.”_ Silence. “ _You forgot, didn’t you?”_

“Fred, please, it’s in three days.”

_“So little time to shop!”_

“For what?”

_“Outfits!”_

“Fred, it’s just an event.”

Freddie lets out a scowl. Even on the phone he sounds like a right diva, like he’s performing to a small ampitheatre. _“Ugh, fine.”_

“‘s that all?”

“ _Yeah. Don’t forget, alright? I’ll dress you up nice and do your makeup and all that.”_

“Alright. Where are you anyways?”

_“Somewhere, darling, don’t you worry.”_

“Whatever you say...”

“ _Mhm._ _Bye, love you_ _!_ _”_

“Love you too.”

* * *

After the success of an album launch there is always a party. An event. Anything for the board members, reporters and the band members to mingle and eat together in a rented out hotel ball room.

Roger tolerates them, that’s all he can say. There’s free food and free booze, even if they’re mild at best but he won’t really complain when he does _,_ sometimes, enjoy himself in these events. He doesn’t have to dress formally even when he knows he’s supposed to but, fuck, it’s _their_ event. They’re celebrating the success of the release, to hell with over-the-top fancy outfits.

He decided to dress up in a black silk shirt, with a white jacket covered in birds on top of it. The black trousers he’s wearing is connected with a suspender that goes all the way to his shoulders, keeping them there. It’s chic, Fred said. Roger doesn’t even know what that word _means._ Fred even offered to stick some mascara on his lashes - machine of the devil, that thing is - and sparkle some golden shadow on the lids of his eyes.

Roger won’t lie to himself if anyone were to ask, he kind of likes the look on him. When he checks himself out in the mirror of his yellow-lit bathroom, the flecks of gold faintly glimmered beneath the lights, subtle but _there,_ and among many other moments, he might just agree with Freddie’s judgement.

* * *

The ball room is almost crowded, but it’s calm to the point that there is enough space for anyone to walk from one spot to another easily. It’s smaller than he thought it would be, considering the name itself—a _ball room._ It’s more like a hall, with wide windows and marbled floor with a small chandelier at the corner of the room, lighting up the space as the reflection of its plastic crystals stuck themselves onto the floor, emitting kaleidoscope spots all over the surface, where people chat and dance and snatch drinks from walking waiters with silver trays on the palm of their steady hands.

He spots a small bar at the corner of the room from his peripheral vision, and reminds himself to visit that later tonight.

Smoke fill the ceilings and chimes of laughter deafen his ears, slaps on the back of his shoulder – _congratulations, mate! –_ he’s never minded crowds but he so desperately wants to recoil somewhere.

There is faint jazz music playing from somewhere in the room, and one of the many things Roger notices is the abundance of sub-halls that connects to the main room. Turns and corridors are all over the place, leading to god knows where. Another thing he notes is the ice sculpture at the centre, right beneath the chandelier, water flowing from the small, perfectly-shaped Queen crest on top of the standee. He feels some sort of pride out of it; Fred _made_ that. It was on their album sleeve. It’s a part of them.

And now it’s an ice sculpture.

What a world.

“Would you like some, sir?”

Roger turns his head, sight dropped on a girl dressed in typical black and white waiter attire, complete with the fitted black waistcoat and the bowtie. Her black hair is tied into a bun, and her thick eyebrow is raised, as so is the silver tray on her hand. On top of it stand glasses of champagne, and something akin to gin and tonic.

“Ah, yes please,” he replies with a small smile, reaching towards the tall leg of the champagne glass before bringing the rim up to his lips. “Ta.”

The girl smiles in return, before sauntering somewhere in her flat shoes, tray steady and not once faltering.

He takes one last look around the room, feeling the dull atmosphere slowly starting to stick onto his skin like a layer. There are glimmering silver jewelleries and tall people in platform shoes, men in suits and journalists in regal-looking dresses. Some track is playing in the background, and people are on the dance floor, shaking their arses and twirling about in such a fashion that shows how well aware they are. Having fun, but also not quite.

He almost laughs at the sight.

These parties usually last up until midnight, or even past that. In the midst of it all he always finds himself drinking copuious amounts of alcohol, not remembering a single thing he’s done the night before until Brian comes barging in into band meeting with a folder full of developed pictures. Most of them made Roger want to just disappear.

He sees the abundance of people in his orbit and readies himself.

Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder, and Freddie’s voice right next to his ear saying, “Come on dear, let’s go talk to these motherfuckers.”

* * *

Roger leans against the bar, half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He swirls the leftover ice in it, furrowing his eyebrows at the twinkling noise it lets out.

His head is faintly muddled up with the alcohol running in his veins, and his eyes become half-lidded, his mouth parted. Everything slows down to him just a little, hazy, like he’s barely tipsy. He doesn’t know how many shots he’s taken before this, but he finds that he doesn’t care, not when everything feels more vivid to him, saturation turned up all the way. The chandelier above him is bright, and it gives him just a little sense of clarity.

Roger relies on his instincts now, whatever it is he deems right, and something in him is screaming that the right thing is John.

He just almost curses at that thought, dropping his head down on the bar table as he places the glass back on the surface. Even his consciousness is mocking himself at this point, he thinks to himself. Everything in him is a bit dulled out from the whiskey, but just the thought of John is enough to make him feel like he’s slowly dying. He doesn’t know which is more painful, the image of John giggling and smiling at one of his jokes, or the image of John staring down at him, throat bared for him. He wants the world to swallow him whole right at this moment, and he’s barely blinking, but his mind is telling him to _go_ , look for John and do something with all this feeling that’s filling him up.

He’s unable to think because of it.

He succumbs eventually, to his own thoughts. He searches for John all over the room, knowing that John wouldn’t be too far. John has told the three of them multiple times before that parties aren’t really his thing – unless it involves disco, then they know he’d be up for anything – and that he would probably be steering away from large crowds in said parties.

In between everything, Roger looks. He looks for him.

And he finds him.

Leaning right against a wall, exuding such an unexpected ease that it almost takes Roger’s breath away for a moment. He’s got people around him, and he’s talking to them, a glass of champagne elegantly propped in his hand, his awfully _sinful_ fingers curling around the stem and keeping them steady. He’s got this easy smile on his face, but he looks coy, with the way he’s staring up at them through his lashes. He makes them feel like they’re being paid deep attention to, he always does, and Roger always finds that admirable about him.

He watches him, lifting his glass of whiskey to his own lips just to make himself seem less obvious. (Even if he does.)

John turns his head to look at another person talking, and in the midst of that he flips his hair behind his shoulder, a move that’s so effortlessly hypnotising, but it just _does_ , and Roger feels like he’s only moments from combustion.

The moment Roger lays his eyes on him, his fucking hair covering half of his face, teasing only a quarter of his pink smile, Roger knows he’s absolutely _fucked_. There’s a shift in John’s posture that’s painfully familiar, and his eyes catch all of them; the way his back straightens, revealing the tied ends of his black shirt – the one that Roger _adores,_ with black ruffles and small white stars on them – hem stopping just at the line of his high-waisted trousers.

John’s eyes catch his, and he almost ducks his head, feeling bashful all of the sudden from the onslaught of subtle attention. He keeps his gaze ahead, wanting to make John know that he’s looking, and that he isn’t planning to look away.

There’s something languid in the way John tilts his head in return, multiple feet away from him at the other side of the room, but Roger almost curses at the way he reacts to it himself—he can feel his own face heating up, heart beating fast just at the sight. Blood pumping in his veins, it feels to him as if John is setting the pace for him, coaxing reactions out of him just by being himself and Roger can’t blame him for doing anything. It’s his own fault for being weak.

Weak for him. 

One bat of his eyelashes and Roger’s got his heart melted. One gentle smile from him and Roger feels the sudden want to give him everything he wishes at the moment. One giggle he lets out and Roger just about forgets all the burden and anger pent up in him.

Something about it feels like witchcraft, and Roger can’t deny that he’s been utterly bewitched, by John, by his everything.

And as if John just knows, his deft hand moves to tuck his hair behind his ear as he walks over to the corridor with long, long legs. There are a number of people staring at John, Roger knows it, and he’s sure the bastard knows it too. He looks gorgeous tonight, like he always does, and the easy friendliness he radiates off in the way he converses, how approachable he is, is enough to charm people off their heads.

John turns his head, looks at Roger from his shoulder, and gives him a subtle cock of his head.

All of it a sign clear enough for him. All of it enough to make Roger stand up from his seat, and follow him wherever.

* * *

He feels his wrist being pulled from a small gap between a door and the frame, and the next thing he knows, he’s being pushed into a small, trashed up single sofa at the corner of an unknown room. He doesn’t even know where he is; perhaps John conjured up a room to accommodate with anything he wants because he’s got the world wrapped around his fingertips. He won’t even be surprised if he found out that the universe moves for him.

“Whoa.”

John sits on his lap, arse propped right on Roger’s thighs in a manner so sudden he lets out a loud huff of breath.

“ _Rog. . ._ ” he hears John croon, head tilting to the side until his ear touches his shoulder. He looks beautiful in this low light, his sharp cheekbones highlighted and the green of his eyes saturated. He feels John’s arms lacing around his neck, using it as leverage as the younger man throws his head back, hips moving like he’s dancing his own odd little choreography. His cheeks are bright red, Roger notices with a gulp.

He feels John’s lips on his neck then, nipping a spot of skin there with his teeth, the touch so faint but so dizzying. And then he feels something digging onto his ribcage.

“Ow!” he lets out. “John, your elbow.”

John turns shy, cheeks red as he ducks his head and says, “Oh, oops. Sorry, Rog.”

Roger just shakes his head, a smile overtaking his lips as he brushes a thumb against the surface of John’s chin. He reckons the gesture is too sweet for the moment, but how can he not when John is sitting there looking like _that_?

“What—what’s the matter, Deaks?” He tries his hardest to keep his composure, tries to ignore the way his blood rushes beneath his heated skin at the sight of his bandmate slightly tipsy, rose-cheeked and all. He’s tipsy too, can’t ignore the way the faint thrum of alcohol whispers in his mind to lose himself to the feeling.

“Have you got any idea,” John drawls, before he leans forward, merely inches away from him, “how much I wanted to get you alone back there? I couldn’t _take_ it, Rog, you know I hate crowds.”

Roger brings his shaking hand to tuck a stray piece of John’s hair into the back of his ear, and he feels John lean into the touch. “I do, sweetheart, I do.”

John presses his crotch against his, and Roger bites back a groan as one of his hands immediately settles its way to John’s waist, holding him there. Narrow little thing that fits into his hands as if he’s always meant to hold him like this; what a ridiculous fucking thought that somehow makes Roger’s breath stutter in his throat.

But some part of his mind is, miraculously, still sober.

“John—we shouldn’t. You’re drunk. High as a kite, aren’t you, mate?”

Roger knows that he’s no different. From the amount of shots he’s taken he can almost see the blur, the fuzzy haziness of John’s familiar silhouette, framing his features. It’s almost dreamlike, but the feeling of John’s hot skin against his is only something from a vivid reality.

John just huffs, rolling his eyes as he sits up straighter. “No, ‘m not drunk,” he says. “I’m just tipsy. Y’know I can handle alcohol, right? ‘m not Brian.”

Roger sighs in return, hand reaching up to caress John’s warm cheek.

“Champagne makes me all randy, Rog. . . Fred told me to cut some slag, but y’ know how it gets, yeah? He let me have some more, but I’m barely buzzed. It was insane.” John bites down onto his red lip and breathes out as he grinds down. Roger just wants to put his mouth on him, make those cheeks tear-streaked. “. . . All I could think about back there was you,” he feels John press a finger against his chest, trailing it down the exposed skin, “shagging me in front of _everyone_.”

Christ.

Roger bites down a groan, face heating up at his words. He almost thrusts up, right against the heat between John’s legs, but by some forces, he manages to control himself. He feels himself tightening his grip on John’s waist, and biting down a grin when he hears John let out a small gasp at that.

“Deaky. . .”

He feels John’s index finger pressing against his lips, silencing him. It almost missed the mark. And then he feels John press his own lips against his, a quick peck that leaves Roger chasing for more. He can feel a shiver running up his spine at the sudden change of John’s warm touch, and the room’s coldness suddenly engulfing him when the warmth is all gone.

“Ssh, let me finish,” he says, and Roger sighs as he rubs circles onto the exposed skin of John’s waist between his tied shirt and high trousers. “So I. I kept on staring at the buffet table, you know? Must’ve looked like a critic.” He giggles to himself; adorable. “But I was thinking about how it would feel like to get fucking _railed_ on it.” He chuckles and starts to move his hips, and Roger gulps. “I know you can fuck hard when you want to, right, Rog? Not be so gentle.”

“You don’t like it?” Roger moves to cup one of his cheeks, feeling the heat beneath John’s skin overtake the rough palm of his hand.

John quickly shakes his head, pouting as he tightens his arms around Roger’s neck. “No! No, I like it,” he says, biting his lip. “Forget I ever said anything.” He lets out a small laugh, and Roger, driven by a sudden force, leans forwards to press a kiss against the corner of John’s lips. “I think you can do just about anything to me.”

Hearing those words come of of John’s lips feel like a fever dream, like an alternate reality that has no chance of becoming something real, but it is, and Roger feels like he’s merely seconds away from imploding.

“You know I don’t mean it if I’m being awful sometimes, right, John? I would never mean to hurt you in any way. You’re not just. . .you know.”

_You’re not just a shag_.

John just nods, smiling as he ducks his head. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “You love me too much. Bastard. And you’re never awful.”

Love. Such a reckless word to throw around.

“You’re too cute,” Roger says in return, pinching one of John’s cheeks with gentle fingers. And then he takes John’s bottom lip, drags it down with the pad of his thumb, sees the way it bounces back into place when his touch leaves the spot.

John whines as he moves to grab his wrist. “ _Mmh_ , want it back,” he says. Roger lets his hand be guided, and then he sees John let his tongue loll out, licking his thumb from the sides and up, up, up, before he looks at him right in his eyes and circles his lips around the tip, sliding down and taking him entirely. They’ve been through this million times before, and Roger just lets him do what he wants.

The sight is fucking magnificent.

He feels John shifting until his thigh is slotted between John’s spread legs, watches the way John’s eyelashes flutter close as he spreads his thighs even wider, fabric pulled taut as his grip on Roger’s wrist tighten.

John grunts out, grinding his crotch against Roger’s clothed thigh. John is hot between his legs, frantic and desperate; he’s wearing a pair of flares with flimsy fabric that’s thin enough to possibly make him feel cold when exposed to the night air. Roger can see the outline of John’s cock so clearly he might’ve been not wearing any trousers or pants at all.

Everything is filthy, and Roger just can’t get enough of it. All of this has turned him greedier, and he just wants more and more.

“Feels good, Deaky?” Roger asks, hears the way his voice has turned scratchy and raw. “Take it easy.”

John smirks, lopsided and wicked as he nods, mouth open as he trades Roger’s thumb for his index and middle finger. Roger groans out loud and tightens his grip on John’s moving waist, feeling like his brain is a frantic movement of events that run wild and go haywire.

“‘s so good, Rog,” he hears John mumble with his mouth full, hips moving faster and faster, shameless in what he wants and in his pleasure. John pulls away for a moment, panting with his mouth open. “Love it when you do what I want. Love it when you let me.” He’s moaning now as he presses himself down, unabashedly. And then he slows down, as if he’s teasing himself.

Roger gasps. “I’ll always let you.”

John says he can’t sing, but when he’s lost in it he sounds like the prettiest thing alive. He always sounds like he hasn’t been touched in _years_ and it haunts Roger in sleepless nights where he ends up fucking his own fist to the memory of John on his lap, on the floor, in his car, wrecked and spread apart, oblivious to the fact that he’s wrecking Roger in return.

Roger feels like his heart is pounding out of his chest. He takes it to his account and stiffens his fingers slightly, eyes almost rolling back at the feeling of John’s hot mouth as he pushes his fingers in and out of it, watching the way John lets his mouth be used. Roger takes his time, pressing the pads of his fingers against John’s velvet-like tongue, feeling the way it curls against him.

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbles.

John pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

He hears John laugh, and it morphs into a grunt. “You’re so sweet to me, Rog.” He feels John opening the fly of his trousers and sticking his hand in there, no warnings whatsoever, and Roger has been hard and leaking the moment he saw John walk down that corridor, so it’s no problem when John circles his hand around him and moves his deft fingers up and down. “Wonder if you’re this sweet to everyone you shag.”

Roger gasps, and John takes his fingers deeper into his mouth, resulting in wet heat once again engulfing the skin of Roger’s fingers. It sounds filthy too, the way John bobs his head up and down and the wet noise it emits, the way John laps on his own saliva like a whore. Come to think of it, they’re both whores; who’d rid of their prides away with the title of bandmates, in turn of quenching reckless desires with a mountain of consequences? Perhaps even harlots have more pride than the two of them, wiser and more aware of reality—perhaps Roger and John are just slaves of carnal wanting, doesn’t matter who it is, they just need a hot mouth and a warm body.

But Roger _wants_.

And he wants John, so badly.

It’s overwhelming, but everything with John is always overwhelming. “Just you,” he breathes out, feeling like he’s already crossing the border of rambling. He’s putting his thoughts out, those dangerous sentiments that might ruin them, but in this heat, he finds that he doesn’t care. “Just you, Deaky.”

John nods, seemingly pleased.

Roger doesn’t know what’s gotten into him, but he teases: “Jealous, baby?”

A faint shiver runs through his spine when he sees John’s eyes snap open, staring at him through glazed ash-green, as his hips slow down.

“Never,” John says, voice faint and shy of a whisper, but it still evokes a dull heat in the pit of Roger’s stomach. He sounds so sure of it, he sounds confident, and Roger’s heart beat tenfolds faster at the sheer charm that behaviour exudes. He knows John could be coy and timid if he wants to, but he could also be bitchy and bossy if he wants to. John is charming in every side of his personality, what makes him tick and smile - it depends on which side of the spectrum John is feeling, but in his fiery bravado he’s even more beautiful. Like a fire, crackling, waiting to pounce even if he looks like a gazelle. “We both know I’m your best fuck.”

Roger groans out, feeling heat consuming him once more and his heart pounding, before placing his hand on the back of John’s neck and pulling him into a kiss, almost moaning out when he feels John open his mouth obediently, tongue hot against his, lips soft like a dream. John kisses back just as eagerly, hips continue to move and drag his crotch back and forth on the harsh surface of Roger’s thigh. He cries out, feeling John’s hand move faster and faster, coaxing guttural noises out of him, not even bothering to quiet themselves at this point. They’re far from the others, it’d be fine.

Even if people hear, then fuck it, at least they’d know how John Deacon isn’t such a bloody prude after all. He’s capable of wrecking and being wrecked, capable of being beautiful even in the blurry half-light.

And Roger _feels._ He feels so much that he can’t take it anymore.

Roger takes his wet fingers out of John’s mouth and places his hands right on John’s arse, gripping the plump flesh there, keeping John’s thighs wide as he keeps moving. Roger catches on to this, using his hold as leverage to guide John’s movements altogether, making him go faster, and faster, and faster until John slumps against him, back arched as he moans right into Roger’s ear.

“That’s it, Rog.” John’s hand is now frantic on his cock, sloppy, smearing wetness everywhere as he drags onto his skin, coaxing him to lose his mind too. He can feel John gripping onto his shoulder, his arm, and he can’t breathe. “ _Ah_ , fuck.” 

“‘s it good? How’s it feel, Deaks?” He gasps. “You alright?”

John chuckles, the sound sultry and debauched and nothing alike to how he sounds at band meetings, sweet and innocent.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, voice pitching low. “It’s so good, Rog. So fucking good. Want it more. Do what you like.”

Roger can feel his own face warming up. He does have a filthy mouth, but that was in the heat of the moment.

He leans in, and bites the spot where John’s neck meets his shoulder.

John throws his head back and moans, loud.

Roger’s heart skips a beat.

“You liked that?”

John opens his mouth, tongue peeking up to lick the side of his lip as he smiles, sweet and very much _him._

“Bloody _loved_ it. You know I did, you bastard.” John smacks the side of his head, and Roger lets out a chuckle before he can stop it. “Stop teasin’ me and get on with it.”

The brunet props his knees on the open spaces of the couch, before gripping onto the cushion behind Roger’s head as he moves even faster, getting off in the most reckless way Roger could imagine. He’s sweating, they both are, but John’s tied shirt has ridden up to almost exposing his ribcage, soft skin all there for Roger to see. John leans back, lets his back arch and his body pulled taut as he throws his head back and lets it loll to the side, his long hair flowing over his shoulders and sticking onto his neck. John is panting over and over, taking all of Roger’s breath in his and making him light-headed in the best possible way.

If this is the way to go then Roger wouldn’t mind.

Roger smiles as he bites back a moan. “Enjoyin’ yourself there, Deaky?” he teases, voice gentle as he watches John move beneath the haze of his own pleasure. And then John twists his hand just _so,_ taking him until he feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Y—yeah,” John replies, faltering for a moment. “‘t feels _so_ good. Shit, I’m dizzy.”

Roger grunts at a particular flick of John’s wrist, the way he thumbs over the slit. “Me too.”

“Rog, I’m gonna. . .” John’s voice comes out ragged, almost echoing in the small space, ringing in his ears and leaving a searing memory that would haunt his later nights from this day.

“Come on, Deaky,” Roger coaxes, pressing open-mouthed kisses all over the smooth column of John’s neck. “Do it. Fucking do it.”

John replies with a small whine, and Roger moves his thigh along with the guided movements of John’s hips, tightens the grip he has on his arse, and makes sure John keeps his legs spread wide, pushes him down closer to his thigh until John can feel all of it. The brunet takes his hand out of his trousers and spits onto it, before sticking it inside again and starts to circle it around the base of Roger’s cock once more, everything slicker now, skin hot with sweat.

With the movement of his thigh, the way he’s pushing John back and forth all over him, and the way John is moving faster and faster with desperation, back perfectly arched as he grinds down, it takes merely seconds for John to come, hips stuttering before he closes his eyes shut, teeth biting down onto the corner of his lip to muffle his own noises. John is red all over, and somehow that just might be one of the prettiest things he’s ever seen in his life.

John’s eyes flutter open, slowly, as he regains himself, soft gasps tumbling out of his parted mouth. 

“You haven’t. . .” John’s voice trails off into a whisper, and Roger looks down to see himself still, very much, hard.

He feels his face heating up, shifting so the focus won’t be on it.

“I,” he says, feeling unnaturally shy all of the sudden, “it’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

And then John smiles and shakes his head, before sliding down to settle himself in between the space of Roger’s spread thighs.

* * *

They breathe against each other, skin hot and lungs heavy.

Roger doesn’t know what to say.

John grins dreamily, and kisses his cheek.

“Thank you, Rog,” he says quietly, and the kiss is a light touch, but it leaves a searing mark into his skin. It burns red hot, tearing him apart from the inside, and Roger doesn’t understand why it feels like it does.

It’s a funny little feeling that makes him all muddled, like something out of his youth, something ambiguous, something exciting - something…

Painful.

The feeling of not knowing but also being deeply aware of what he’s feeling and that whatever it is is real, Roger might need to get two or three more shots just to forget about it.

“Don’t you ever thank me for that, alright?”

John stands up and takes his hands with him, pulling him up. He lets himself be led towards the door, where John opens it wide, as if the outside world is waiting for him to leave.

John smiles bright, eyes glimmering beneath the lights of the corridor. He glows at night, somehow like a firefly that attracts him more than any other beauties. He’s a mess with his tousled hair, rumpled shirt, ruddy cheeks and bruised up lips, but Roger sees nothing but a kind of charm that he knows best—that belongs only to John. “See you out there?”

“Mm,” Roger just replies, leaning against the doorframe as he watches John saunter away in those chunky six inch boots, further and further from him towards the corridor, and back into the party he said he hates.

Seeing him walk away stings just a little. But Roger tries to pretend that it’s nothing. That it’s just something out of a silly attraction that he should’ve been more aware of, especially the consequences that follow after it, tailing behind it and barging on Roger’s mind each night. 

Sleeping with a bandmate - a good _friend_ \- he really should’ve known better.

But when John just _does_ him, gets him like no other, he wonders if anyone else could resist the charm that has strangled him whole.

He sighs, looking down at his own feet, resting his head against the doorframe until he can no longer hear the sound of John’s boots echoing in the hallway.

He can hear the sound of another pair of boots, echoing progressively louder and louder in the hallway, walking towards him, but he knows just by the sound of it that it’s heavier, nothing like anything John’s ever worn before. He doesn’t look up, relentlessly surrenders to anything. He’s sated, he’s tired, he’s dazed and he’s confused.

“Dear god, Roger, you dirty bastard,” comes a voice from his left, melodic and low like a chandelier dangling from a millionaire’s manor, where a feast is happening and the patrons are dancing waltz in their pompous shoes and expensive dresses. “I fucking knew it!”

The thing is, Roger knows who that voice belongs to. Fuck, he’s lived with him for years.

It’s a _normal_ response when he jolts in his spot like a child caught red-handed, as he turns his his head slowly, dreadfully, a part of him slowly accepting his deathly fate, only to see the sight of one Freddie Mercury in his ridiculous white spiky three-piece, arms crossed in front of his chest, shaking his head slowly as he tuts.

“Care to explain?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading. if these boys have turned you morosexual cos of their sheer stupidity then come scream at me [here](https://foxival.tumblr.com)


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